


true north

by wetbreadstick



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-06
Updated: 2015-03-06
Packaged: 2018-03-16 14:04:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3491096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wetbreadstick/pseuds/wetbreadstick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Trust me,” Inigo says quietly, reaching up to curl fingers into Gerome’s hair. “I’ve been waiting longer.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	true north

**Author's Note:**

> north isn't true  
> 'til it's leading me to you

If anyone had ever asked Gerome as to why he continued to deal with Inigo, a withering stare would have been his only response.

He was more than a handful. It seemed to be practically every night that Inigo would drag Gerome out to the local tavern, laughter bright in his voice: _There’s nothing like a beautiful woman to lift your spirits, Gerome! Maybe it’ll put a smile on your face for once!_

However, as the evenings wore on, Inigo’s optimism would oft fade to something sullen.

_I don’t understand, I don’t understand, why you and not me, aren’t I handsome? I'm handsome, right?_

If the sulky whining had been the only thing Gerome had to deal with, then he would have abandoned Inigo to his misadventures long ago. However, being that Inigo was rather fond of _drinking_ while attempting to woo women, it was in his best interests to stick around. Despite his less-than-tolerable habits, Inigo was a friend, and given that he was not at his most coordinated when drunk, it fell to Gerome to escort him safely back to camp.

Over time, despite Inigo’s many irrational endeavors, he’d grown close to Gerome. _An acquired taste_ , as Inigo put it, smile all teeth and charm. Coming to the future, Gerome had promised himself that he wouldn’t forge any new bonds—but Inigo had wormed his way in somehow, just under his skin. Like a maddening itch he couldn’t quite scratch.

“Gerome.” Inigo says.

Silence.

“Gerome,” again.

“What?" Gerome offers him a stare, shifting under Inigo’s grip on his arm.

“I really _don’t_ understand,” he sighs, plaintive. “Every night—every night this happens, Gerome, you have women crowding around you. Crowding! Like you’re some sort of festival attraction!”

“Hm.” Gerome’s heard this speech a hundred times before. “Don’t trip.” With a disapproving noise, he guides Inigo around a dip in the cobbled road, broken stone strewn under their feet.

Inigo sighs. It’s a melodramatic noise, and he trains his gaze on Gerome’s partially-hidden face, eyes big and pleading. “Gerome.”

Gerome grunts.

“It’s not that, though—I understand, I mean, you’re all tough and dark and tall and mysterious,” Inigo rambles, barely keeping up with Gerome’s steady pace. Behind them, the streetlights fade, leaving the road dark ahead of them. The campsite lies ahead, nestled among the trees, little pinpricks of lantern light like stars.

“But what I don’t understand is why you never—“ Inigo pauses, brow furrowing in thought. “—why you never take them up on their offers.” His voice is triumphant, like maybe he’s stumbled upon the query of the goddamn century.

Gerome pauses a moment. “Not interested.” He finally says, stiffly. He makes a move to pull away from Inigo’s hand (which has an iron grip on his forearm) but to no avail. Inigo’s immovable.

“Not interested in—sex? Or women?” Inigo presses, blinking as the lights of the camp come into closer view.

“Not interested.” Gerome repeats, irritation evident in his voice.

Inigo squints at him.

“There’s no reason?” he says suspiciously, leaning in close. Conspiratorially. Gerome can smell the alcohol on his breath.

“No.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm.” Inigo makes a thoughtful noise even as they enter the camp, finally loosening his grip on Gerome’s arm. “I’ll figure it out, Gerome. You can’t hide anything from me.” Even as his hand falls, he points an accusing finger at Gerome before meandering off (a bit unsteadily) to his tent. The rustling of canvas tells Gerome that Inigo’s safely in his bed for the night.

With a sigh, he straightens his mask where it’s loose, tugged at by women’s fingers. The constant invasion of his personal space was overwhelming. Intrusive. Uncomfortable. The fact that Inigo actively sought it out was nothing but a mystery to him.

The late nights leave him too tired to dwell on such thoughts. Stifling a yawn, he picks his way through the tents and over to Minerva, who greets him with a low rumble. He pats her snout as way of greeting before finally settling by her stomach, legs crossed in the grass.

Idly, he watches the sky, noting how the stars look like lamplight.

* * *

 

The next day, he catches Inigo dancing.

It’s no secret: Inigo has danced for him and Minerva before, albeit shyly. Gerome’s also stumbled upon him several times and lingered, out of curiosity if nothing else. This is nothing new to him. Even so, he pauses behind the thick trunk of an oak, leaning against the wood even as he watches Inigo move. It’s clearly a new routine, because he keeps stumbling, pausing, cursing, then moving to repeat the same actions.

Inigo’s clearly determined to get it right—he goes through the motions again and again, repeating and correcting, never once pausing. Even from where he’s standing, Gerome can see sweat shining on his face and neck.

He pauses, then, running a hand through errant locks before straightening up-- he turns, only to catch sight of Gerome, and his eyes widen.

“Oh,” he says breathlessly. “Oh-- tell me you didn’t see that.” He laughs, sheepish and clearly embarrassed, a hand coming up to rub the back of his head.

“Is that a new dance?” Gerome jerks his chin at him, arms folding over his chest. Inigo nods wordlessly, gaze dropping to the ground. Despite his initial hesitation, there’s pride in his eyes, mouth quirking upwards.

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s—I wanted to try something new.” The tension drains from his shoulders, expression fading to something loose and relaxed. “What-- er, what do you think?”

Gerome looks past him, out at the shining lake, maintaining his neutral expression.

“I'm hardly the person to consult on these things," he says, slow, "but I suppose it has potential."

Inigo stares at him for a moment. It’s careful, critical—thoughtful, even, much different from the carelessness of his usual gaze. Gerome shifts uncomfortably under the intensity of it.

“Well,” he says, suddenly cheerful. “I’m glad you liked it. See you around, hm? I think the ladies back at camp could use some help. With- something, probably.” With a wink, Inigo brushes past him, clapping a hand amicably against his shoulder.

Gerome pretends that doesn’t make his stomach twist.

* * *

 

He finds Inigo again the next day, and then the next, and even the next after that, always in the same spot, practicing the same dance. He’s getting better at it: his movements are smoother, steps surer, expression holding more confidence.

Whether he wants to admit it to himself or not, Gerome genuinely enjoys watching him practice. It’s rare he gets to see Inigo in such a way that brings out his passion and energy other than on the battlefield. Even then, Inigo’s only electric because he’s fighting for his life, not because he loves the thrill of battle.

Now, there’s nothing but concentration on his face, brows knitted as he focuses, body fluid as he moves to some imaginary beat. It’s captivating—not simply because of his movements, but also because of the intensity of Inigo’s focus.

It seems like all too soon that he’s finished, slowly straightening to a standing position, exhaling a long, slow breath, gaze shifting over to where Gerome’s standing.

Perhaps it’s become some sort of routine. Maybe Inigo expects him to be there. Gerome shifts uncomfortably at the thought.

“Well? What do you think?” Inigo calls to him as he makes his way over, face flushed and shining. Gerome clears his throat, standing up straighter.

“Better.” He finally offers. “You’re not tripping over yourself, at least.”

Inigo laughs, wiping his brow. “Don’t be rude. I’ve never tripped over myself.”

Despite himself, the corner of Gerome's mouth twitches upwards, and he lofts a disbelieving brow. “I don’t know,” he says, “I’ve seen you stumble plenty of times.”

Inigo’s mouth opens and closes several times, like a fish out of water. “Oh, come on." A pause, and then a melodramatic gasp, “Are you _smiling_ , Gerome? I didn’t know you could do that.”

“No.” Gerome responds immediately, face returning to stony neutrality even as Inigo crowds in close.

“You were,” Inigo says triumphantly, pressing in as Gerome steps back. Even when Gerome’s back hits the tree trunk with a muffled noise, he doesn’t back down, expression smug. He finds himself trapped, then, bark rough against his back and Inigo practically pressed up against his front.

Inigo—he’s really close, close enough for Gerome to count faded freckles from the sun, to see the curl of his eyelashes, the lips quirked up into a knowing smile—

 _Knowing_. He _knows_.

“Inigo.” Gerome says, and it’s a little rough, a little panicked. Inigo leans in and _shit_ , he’s _right there_ , lifting his arm to plant his hand on the tree behind him. If he thought he was close before, he’s closer now, eyes lidded.

“Ger _ome_.” Inigo answers, and it rolls husky off his tongue, _indecent_ with the smile that curls at his mouth. Gerome swallows a sudden lump in his throat. He can feel the warmth of Inigo’s breath on his face. “You like men, don’t you?”

Gerome’s eyes fall to his mouth, which is suddenly scant centimeters away: if he were to tilt his head just a bit, lean forward incrementally, he could kiss him. He could kiss him, and he wants to so badly—Inigo’s lips look soft and inviting. He knows what Inigo's voice sounds like late at night, scratchy and gentle, knows the strength of his hands-- in this, he knows Inigo's body, but never in the way he'd hardly dared to imagine. All he has to do is move forward an inch, and—

“Gerome.” Inigo says again, and his voice is lower, heated as he shifts a thigh between Gerome’s legs, letting his free hand smooth over Gerome’s hip, under his shirt to rub over his waist. Gerome’s muscles jump under his fingers. He feels hot enough to explode, like he’ll burst just from the sultry curl of Inigo’s lips and his touch in _all_ the right places.

He realizes that he hasn’t moved a muscle. Inigo’s grinning, eyelids at half-mast, fingers curling against his waist. Gerome’s lips part infinitesimally, breath coming quick from panicked lungs, even as Inigo’s mouth is right _there_ like he’s about to shove him up against the tree and kiss the life out of him.

 _Shit_. Shit, shit.

“I have to go.” Gerome says gruffly. With a swift motion he extricates himself from Inigo’s hold, straightens himself out, ignores the fact that he’s half-hard and then he books it back to camp as fast as he can without actually running, face burning under his mask.

He pretends he can’t feel Inigo’s gaze boring into his retreating back.

* * *

 

The days pass. Gerome does everything within his power to avoid Inigo. He picks up kitchen duty, patrol duty, cleaning, inventory—anything he can to keep himself busy out of sight. Despite his flurry of activity, Inigo’s words keep burning in his mind: _you like men, don’t you, you like men?_

He’d never told anyone. No one in the past knew—he’d kissed a stranger once, then come back the next day to find the town in smoking ruins—and now, certainly not in the future. No one needed to know. But Inigo, with his clever eyes and bright smile had figured it out. And then he’d—he’d gone and gotten too close, close enough to kiss and touch, close enough to smile in a way that made Gerome’s stomach drop—

And he’d thought it was a _joke_.

Gerome grits his teeth, fingers curling into a fist. If Inigo thought it was funny, then as far as Gerome was concerned, he could go be with as many women as he wanted. By himself.

Being alone was something Gerome was more than used to— the loss of one more person in his life would mean nothing.

Minerva huffs out a plume of smoke, concerned, even as Gerome turns to her and hauls himself up onto her back. With a few muttered words from Gerome, she launches herself into the sky, wings beating loud as he holds on tight.

They fly hard and fast, as if to leave the world behind.

* * *

 

When they pack up camp and march to their next destination, Gerome realizes he can’t avoid Inigo forever. He’s packing his things into the caravan when Inigo spots him and zips over, hard determination set in his face.

“Gerome,” he says accusingly as he skids to stand beside him, “You’re avoiding me.”

Gerome pointedly doesn’t make eye contact as he hefts his pack into the wagon.

“Would you at least look at me? You’re acting like a child.” Inigo’s voice is snippy. Angry, even.

With a vicious movement, Gerome shoves his bag into place before whirling around to face him. Surprisingly, Inigo doesn’t even flinch, standing his ground and meeting Gerome’s masked gaze evenly.

“What do you want?” Gerome asks, tone harsh with contempt. “Have you come to mock me again? Because I’ll have none of it, Inigo, comrade or not—“

“Mock you?” Inigo bursts out, interrupting him. “What on earth are you talking about? I’ve never—“

“That stunt you pulled,” Gerome grinds out. “Did you think it was funny? Do I amuse you?”

Inigo’s mouth opens and closes, red flush tinting his ears and cheeks. “You—“ he puffs himself up, equal parts embarrassed and determined. “I wasn’t—you idiot, I wasn’t mocking you—no, don’t interrupt!” he holds up a finger as Gerome opens his mouth to retort. “That was—I did that because I _wanted_ to, and because I’ve _seen_ the way you watch me dance.” His expression changes to one of half-irritation. “You thought I was mocking you? What kind of man do you think I am?”

For once, Gerome can’t think of a response. His head spins, thoughts flashing by too fast for him to grasp. Inigo wanted to kiss him, he wanted to because he knew, because…?

“I thought you… preferred women.” Gerome finally says hesitantly. His voice is quieter, now.

Inigo eyes him a bit warily. “I can like women and men both.” He answers finally, arms folding stubbornly over his chest. “Do you intend to yell at me some more, or are you done?”

Gerome blinks. Inigo berating _him_ is a sight strange enough to make him forget any words he might've had.

“My… anger was justified.” He says finally, stiff. “You caught me off guard, and I had no way to know your true intentions. For all I knew, you were just trying to make a… joke out of me.” Gerome’s voice takes on a bitter twist.

Inigo sighs, running a hand through his hair. His posture relaxes, changing from something defensive to one of acceptance.

“That’s... on me, then. Gerome, I wouldn’t do that. To you. To anyone." His voice is unusually serious. Gerome feels his stomach twist into uncomfortable knots. “My intentions were… just as they seemed.” Again, his face flushes some. Gerome stares.

“I see.” He says. For a moment, Inigo levels an uncertain gaze at him, before a hesitant smile pulls at his lips.

“Gerome…” he takes a step forward, and Gerome automatically tenses some. Inigo simply extends a hand, finding Gerome’s wrist, then his palm, and then gently closing his fingers over his hand. “When we reach the next town, ah—“ His expression is earnest, even as he bites his lip. “—I have some money. Would you perhaps like to… stay in an inn with me for a night or two? Perhaps I could make my intentions more clear.”

Gerome sees right through him. The implication there makes his neck burn, and he coughs, glancing down at where their fingers twine together.

“Perhaps.” He answers slowly. It’s as good as a yes: Inigo brightens, face pink, eyes practically gleaming.

“I’ll make the arrangements, then.” Withdrawing his hand, he lifts it in a gesture of farewell, already turning on his heel. With a grin, Inigo retreats back to his place in the caravan, just out of sight.

Gerome flexes his fingers, suddenly aware of a loss of warmth.

* * *

 

The inn is certainly nicer than he’d expected.

Gerome stares up at the swinging sign embellished with gold lettering, cheery against the dark stone of the building. Granted, it's not extravagant, but most inns were nothing more than roughhewn buildings with dark, buggy rooms.

With a shake of his head, he makes his way inside—no one questions him or gives him a second look as he glances down one of the corridors. Briefly, he refers to a sheet of paper in his hands—Inigo had left him a note detailing the location of the room and nothing else, information scrawled in flowery cursive.

After searching for several minutes, he finds the room Inigo had described (end of the corridor, on the left, broken torch holder outside the door) and cautiously pushes his way inside.

It’s clean, which was more than could be said for most establishments. The bed – one bed? – is neatly made, situated just under a window. There’s a table in the corner and a rug on the floor.

Gerome notes the impressive lack of cockroaches.

There’s a conspicuous lack of any other belongings, however, which meant Inigo hadn’t been there yet. Gerome makes a derisive noise. Of course he’d be late to something he set up himself. There’s a door in the corner of the room, and Gerome makes his way over to it, slow and hesitant. He turns the doorknob and pushes it open, blinking in surprise as he comes face to face with a bathtub.

Gerome doesn’t even remember the last time he’d had a bath—usually, he’d bathe in the river or a lake or not at all if there was nothing nearby. Baths were a luxury of the past. A pump stood tall next to the tub, a bar of lye soap and rough linen towels on a low shelf just behind it.

He glances behind him – Inigo hadn’t shown up yet, and knowing him, he’d likely be a while…

There was surely no harm in indulging himself.

Closing the door quietly behind him, Gerome neatly strips off his clothes and mask and drops his pack on the floor.

It’d been years since he’d last done something like this. The water’s chilly at best, but it’s better than nothing, and Gerome watches as battle grime sloughs off of his skin and into the water. He hadn’t realized how truly disgusting the war had made him thus far.

It takes him some time to scrub all the dirt off of him, the dried blood, the mud and unmentionable filth from weeks of accumulated marching and fighting. The bone-deep weariness and ache would likely never fade, but this is enough.

When he’s done, his skin is practically glowing pink, cleaner than it’s been in months. Years, even. Grabbing a towel, he dries himself slowly, careful not to irritate still-healing wounds and sensitive scars. Slipping into a pair of clean pants from his pack, he grabs his things and pushes the door open once more.

“I was wondering when you were going to finish.”

Gerome’s head snaps up at Inigo’s cheery voice, gaze immediately finding where he’s sprawled languidly on the bed. It’s a little strange, walking out to find him resplendent against the blankets, and Gerome is suddenly very self-aware of his bare chest and face. His hands twitch, and he drops his things on the floor, already intent on slipping his mask back on.

“Hey,” there’s a shift of fabric, and Gerome glances at Inigo, who’s now sitting up. “Come here. I’ve been waiting long enough.”

As if pulled by a string, Gerome straightens and makes his way over to the bed, bare feet padding against the carpeted floor. Inigo smiles up at him, fond and genuine, and Gerome’s stomach twists.

“I was the one who was waiting for you.” Gerome says numbly, sitting on the blanketed straw mattress. Inigo shifts closer, and Gerome can count the individual flecks of color in his eyes. He leans in close, unsure, but still pressing forward as if drawn by a magnet.

“Trust me,” Inigo says quietly, reaching up to curl fingers into Gerome’s hair. “I’ve been waiting longer.”

Gerome gets the sense that he’s referring to something else, and he exhales slowly, scalp tingling where Inigo’s fingertips wind into his hair.

Inigo’s close enough to kiss him, now, his other palm smoothing up Gerome’s thigh. Heat flares in Gerome’s stomach, sudden and molten, and his heart stutters against his ribs. This is different than it was next to the lake: now, Gerome knows it’s not a farce. It’s real.

Wanting Inigo was something he never thought he’d end up doing, but now, face-to-face with him, it’s hard to ignore how fair Inigo is: the hard line of his jaw, the curve of his cheekbones, the sweep of his hair over delicate features. There’s no denying it.

“Are you nervous?” Inigo breathes, fingers practically stroking his still-damp hair. It’s soothing, almost intimate, but it’s nothing compared to the tense heat already flickering through Gerome’s stomach. His fingers twitch where they lie limp by his sides, and then he lifts a hand, tentatively finding Inigo’s hip.

“No.” he says back. Inigo puffs out a laugh, eyes crinkling up at the corners, and that’s—that’s it, that little mannerism he’d never noticed is enough, and he presses forward to finally, finally kiss Inigo.

It’s everything he’d thought it would be. Inigo’s lips are soft, mouth warm against his as he exhales a soft noise through his nose. Gerome pushes his hand up under his shirt, feeling the heat of his skin against his palm.

When he feels the slide of Inigo’s tongue he responds in kind—he’s clumsy, he can feel it, but Inigo just presses closer with a breathy groan. The kiss slides from sweet to intense in a heartbeat: Inigo does something with his tongue, slick and deep and _wicked_ and it’s enough to make Gerome’s toes curl. Inigo cups his jaw with his other hand, holding him close.

Gerome can hear his heartbeat in his ears, the wet noises their mouths make, Inigo’s tiny huffs of breath. Inigo smooches him once, twice, letting out a breathless laugh as he runs fingers through Gerome’s hair.

“You’ve never done this before, huh?” he murmurs, kissing the corner of Gerome’s mouth, then his jaw, then down the side of his neck.

Gerome flushes, hands frozen at Inigo’s hips. Inigo’s mouth is hot against his throat, and when Inigo pauses to suck a bruise into his skin, he makes a strangled noise. “No,” he admits, voice hoarse. “I’ve never had the chance.”

Inigo kisses just under his jaw before pulling back, a twinkle in his eye. “So I get to deflower you?” he grins, and Gerome rolls his eyes. “Come, now, don’t be like that,” he kisses Gerome sweetly, a hand dropping to where Gerome’s rests at his waist.

“Here,” he murmurs, and Gerome’s gaze drops to where Inigo’s clasping his hand. Slowly, he tugs Gerome’s palm from his hip, guiding it over his stomach and then down to the tie of his pants and then, _oh_ —Gerome can feel his cock even through the layers of cloth, firm and half-hard against his palm.

He swallows hard.

“Not so bad?” Inigo queries, still smiling, and Gerome exhales a shuddering breath. He’s only ever touched himself before, and Inigo doesn’t feel much different, but knowing that Inigo _wants_ this, and that he’s already _getting hard_ for Gerome is dizzying.

In lieu of an answer Gerome kisses him again, with enough force that their teeth clack together briefly, and Inigo responds eagerly. It’s messier than the initial kiss, wet and noisy, Inigo making muffled, unashamed noises into Gerome’s mouth. Gerome palms Inigo, rough friction hot under his hand, and Inigo sighs unsteadily, kiss breaking as he presses his hips forward against Gerome’s touch.

“Gerome,” Inigo says, and it’s a whisper, barely a breath, but it makes the hair on the back of Gerome’s neck prickle. He suddenly shifts, then, hands moving to Gerome’s shoulders, and then he’s pushing him firmly down against the mattress.

Gerome lets him, mostly because he has no clue what else to do, watching with parted lips as Inigo straddles his hips. The sudden warmth and weight in his lap reminds him _very_ suddenly that he’s also hard, achingly so, and he groans behind clenched teeth as Inigo experimentally grinds down against him. Without thinking, he rocks his hips back up against Inigo, who stutters out a laugh.

“Gods,” Inigo says, a bit breathless, cheeks flushed and rosy. “You’re hot without your mask.”

That makes something funny twist in Gerome’s chest, warm and bright. He’s spared the expectation of an answer as Inigo shifts his attention elsewhere, reaching into his back pocket to retrieve a small circular tin.

Gerome tries to bring his breathing back to normal, watching in silence as Inigo pops open the tin, examining its contents. He has a pretty good idea of what it is, but—

“What is that?” Gerome asks, hands still by his sides. Inigo wrinkles his nose, looking a little sheepish.

“Well, technically it’s—“ Inigo begins, floundering a bit. “It’s lotion, but I figured we could, you know. Use it.”

“Lotion?” Gerome says dubiously.

“Yes. I bought it from the merchant woman. She said it would do _wonders_ for my skin, and—“

As Inigo talks, Gerome’s mouth twitches.

“—and women would be _all over me_ , it smells like spice and sandalwood, and—“

Gerome _laughs_.

There’s nothing mean-spirited about it: he lifts a hand to cover his mouth, muffling the sounds of his amusement. It’s not loud or obnoxious, it’s not cruel or unfair—it’s a soft chuckle, clear as a bell. Inigo pauses, expression disbelieving as he watches him.

“Are you—“ Inigo gapes at him before grinning wide, tin forgotten as he leans down over Gerome. “Are you laughing at me?”

Gerome doesn’t answer even as Inigo plants his hands in the blanket on either side of his head, chest shaking with mirth.

It’s all ridiculous—all of this, the whole situation: the transition from barely-friends to uncertain lovers in less than a week, rooming at an inn, the _sandalwood lotion_. He laughs even as Inigo plants kisses along his cheeks, his forehead, mouth, chin, nose. There’s something ballooning in his chest, bright and unfamiliar behind his ribs. He can feel Inigo smiling against his skin.

Gerome tangles his hands in Inigo’s hair, tugging him down for a proper kiss, smooth and slick now that they’ve done it more than once. The rare smile tugging at his lips fades, then, as Inigo grinds back against him once more. He makes a choked noise against Inigo’s mouth as he does it again, then again, building a slow, steady rhythm.

Grudgingly, Inigo pulls away once more, letting his gaze linger on Gerome’s face. “I like you when you laugh,” he muses, and then he’s hopping off the bed. Gerome watches him, the shift of his muscles, the curve of his reddened mouth.

With several smooth movements, Inigo tugs off his clothing—shirt first, then pants, then smallclothes, and then he’s very, _very_ naked.

Gerome can’t tear his eyes away. Inigo slides back onto the mattress, knees on either side of his waist, tin back in hand. There’s no lack of muscle on Inigo’s body—everything about him screams of a lithe power, swift and deadly. He feels indecent, embarrassingly so as his gaze travels down Inigo’s chest and stomach, then down to the V of his hipbones, right to where his dick stands hard and flushed against his belly.

Inigo clearly enjoys the attention—his expression is more than pleased as he follows Gerome’s gaze, fingers dipping into the slick contents of the tin. Gerome’s very aware of that, suddenly, and his eyes immediately flick to Inigo’s hands. “You’re going to…?” he begins haltingly, uncertain for once.

Inigo clicks his tongue, offering Gerome a roguish wink. “I’m going to - er - ride you,” he says cheerily, like he’s commenting on the weather. “But it’s been a while, so, ah, you’ll have to let me ... prepare myself first.”

It takes a moment for Gerome to figure out what those words mean - when he does, his brain temporarily shorts out.

“Oh,” he says.

Inigo chuckles before reaching behind him with slick fingers. Gerome watches, lips parted, as he slowly, slowly nudges a finger into himself, breathing out shakily. For a moment, the only sound is the slick movement of Inigo’s finger as he works it in and out.

It’s the hottest thing Gerome’s ever seen.

Granted, he hasn’t seen much, but he doubts that there’s anything that could beat Inigo fingering himself, panting softly, hips rolling slowly as he straddles Gerome’s waist.

Sitting up on an elbow, Gerome lifts a hand, palm smoothing down Inigo’s jaw. Inigo shifts his gaze to meet Gerome’s once more as he presses a second finger in alongside the first, slow and careful. He grins and turns his head, pressing a kiss to the pad of Gerome’s thumb, then to his palm.

For whatever reason, that makes Gerome’s cock twitch with interest. Inigo feels that, maybe, because he grips Gerome’s wrist with his free hand, languidly kissing each fingertip even as he continues to press his own fingers into himself.

Gerome feels paralyzed with arousal, like he can’t move: all he can do is watch Inigo slowly rock back onto his fingers and-- _fuck_ —his tongue darts out, catching the edge of Gerome’s thumb, and then he sucks the digit into his mouth, never breaking eye contact even as he swirls his tongue around it.

He groans around Gerome’s finger as he painstakingly, cautiously spreads himself open, sweat beading at his temples. Clearly, Inigo has no intention of rushing himself, the rhythm of his fingers languid and unhurried. It's more preparation than he needs, evidently, but he's clearly enjoying putting on a show.

Unfortunately, Gerome is not as patient—he pulls his hand away from Inigo’s jaw, shifting down to press two fingers past his lips. Inigo moans around them, tongue and throat working warm around the pads of Gerome’s fingers. He watches, dumbstruck, hearing very clearly the obscene noises Inigo’s mouth makes.

That combined with the ever-present sound of Inigo’s own fingers steadily working in and out of him is enough to have Gerome harder than he’s ever been in his life. He looks good with fingers in his mouth, _gods_ —he’d probably look good with a cock in his mouth too—and Gerome groans at the thought, quiet and deep in his throat. Inigo meets his eye once again, allowing another breathy moan around Gerome's fingers - the teasing bastard. He probably knows exactly what Gerome’s thinking.

After what seems like an eternity, Inigo pulls his hand back with a wet noise, sighing shakily around Gerome’s fingers. Automatically, Gerome withdraws them as well, watching Inigo with a careful expression.

“Are you ready?” Inigo says. It’s cheerful, tone contrasting with how his hands work slowly at the tie of Gerome’s pants. “Lift your hips,” he adds, and Gerome does, tensing as Inigo tugs his clothing down and off his hips, leaving him bare from the thighs up.

His dick lies heavy against his stomach, precum beading wet at the tip. Inigo stares down at it, before flashing a catlike smile up at Gerome and reaching for the dented metal tin once more. Scooping more lotion onto his fingers (it really does smell like sandalwood), he grips Gerome’s cock, stroking him smoothly, easily.

Gerome groans at that—louder than he’d been, head falling back as Inigo works him with a practiced hand. He could come from this easily, without a doubt, but before he can even fully entertain the thought Inigo’s already pulled his hand back.

He blinks, watching Inigo as he shifts up onto his knees, holding Gerome’s cock steady as he trains his gaze underneath him. He bites his lip in concentration, moving his hips, nudging closer—and then he rocks his hips downward, and Gerome can feel the blunt head of his dick nudge up into tight slickness, and then—

Then Inigo is sinking down onto his cock with slow motions, gradually situating himself on top of him, teeth worrying his bottom lip until he finally _sits_ , taking Gerome fully inside of him. Gods, the heat is incredible—with every movement he makes, Gerome can feel Inigo tight around him, thighs clenched tight on either side of his waist. He fists his hands into the blanket on either side of him, listening to Inigo pant hazily.

“Are you alright?” Gerome asks, surprised at how husky and breathless his voice is. The heat in his stomach glows and brightens with every shift of Inigo’s hips, tightening and focusing on every drop of raw desire pooling behind his navel.

“Of course,” Inigo rasps, and Gerome’s stomach twists. He sounds _wrecked_ , hoarse and pleased, and they hadn’t even really _done_ anything yet— “Just give me a moment, hm?”

And Gerome does, watching with aroused wonder as Inigo breathes in and out steadily, tongue darting out to lick his lips.

Without warning, Inigo shifts up onto his knees a little bit, before sinking back down. Gerome gasps, air escaping him like he’s been punched as Inigo does it again, then again, in tiny thrusts that are more like grinding than anything. But, gods, it’s so fucking sweet and hot and with every thick push of Gerome’s cock into him, every movement forcing a hard exhale from Inigo’s lips.

Gerome reaches out to grip Inigo’s waist, to help him move, but Inigo grabs his wrist and leans forward to kiss his knuckles instead.

“Let me,” he says breathily, twining fingers with Gerome’s.

Gerome would linger on that moment more, but then Inigo shifts, pulls almost all the way off of him before sinking back down, taking him all the way to the base— then starts to practically _bounce_ , fucking himself on Gerome’s cock in earnest.

He groans, long and loud, hips arching up against Inigo. The delayed, wet sound of skin on skin echoes in the small room along with Inigo’s gasps, tiny noises hitching in his throat every time Gerome bottoms out inside of him.

“Shit,” a panted curse, “Shit, Gerome. Gods, _ah_ —“ Inigo’s head falls back as he grinds down onto Gerome, eyes squeezed closed, mouth open and wet.

Hearing his name like that makes Gerome jerk, and there’s _no way_ he’s going to keep lying back while Inigo gasps his name like a prayer. With a sudden motion, he sits up, hands coming to grip Inigo’s hips. When Inigo’s eyes flick open in surprise, lips parting in protest, Gerome shakes his head.

“Keep moving.” He says, voice gravelly.

Inigo somehow finds it in him to grin, and he sinks back onto Gerome, eyes lidded. “Bossy,” he accuses, the word punctuated by a short gasp. “For a virgin, you sure are demanding—“

Gerome tightens his grip on Inigo’s waist and forces him back down onto his cock.

Inigo shudders, toes curling, lips silently forming Gerome’s name. “Fuck,” he offers, voice a ruined whisper. “Fuck—gods, come on, do that again. Harder.”

If he was hot before, Gerome has no idea what he is now—Inigo’s arms come to wrap around his shoulders, hands fisting in his hair as Gerome pulls him down again and again, hips rolling to meet him every time.

Somehow, they maintain eye contact. It’s unbearably intimate. Gerome shivers, and it has nothing to do with how Inigo pants senselessly, legs shaking on either side of him.

There’s no room for words—the staccato beat of Gerome’s pulse and Inigo’s uneven breath is all they need to hear. Gerome kisses him, muffling his own noises—but it’s not so much a kiss as it is a wet mess, all tongue and sharp noises. It seems like forever and not nearly long enough before Gerome feels a familiar tightness in his gut—there’s heat there, twisting tight, ready to snap—

“Inigo,” he starts, then, low and rough, desperate, before Inigo cuts him off.

“Don’t waste time,” Inigo responds, voice practically gone. His expression is flushed, knowing, lips pink from kissing. “Come on, you're almost there - Gods, you feel so good - ”

Gerome stares at him for a moment before digging fingers into his hips anew, pushing up into him again, and again, feeling Inigo’s breath hiccup every time he sinks back down, ass flush against Gerome’s hips. Gerome’s head feels fuzzy even as the familiar heat curls, and his mouth falls open as it gets tighter and tighter and then snaps—he comes with a final jerk of his hips and a desperate, uninhibited groan of Inigo’s name, aftershocks shuddering through him in ripples.

It takes him several moments to recollect himself, and when he does, he realizes that Inigo’s touching himself as he watches Gerome, jerky and slick.

“Let me,” Gerome says, and Inigo laughs breathlessly even as Gerome curls fingers around him.

“That’s my line,” he answers hoarsely, before cutting himself off with a bit-off moan as Gerome works him with firm, steady strokes. “Gerome,” Inigo groans, nails digging half-moon imprints into his shoulder. He pants open-mouthed as his gaze falls to where Gerome’s fingers wrap around him.

It doesn’t take long before he’s rocking into Gerome’s hand, cock still inside him, senseless noises pouring from his mouth – of course he's noisy, of course – as he fists his other hand into Gerome’s hair.

“ ‘m close,” he warns, voice thick—Gerome refrains from commenting, instead speeding up the movement of his fingers around Inigo’s cock.

Inigo comes without a warning, an exclamation tearing itself from his throat, shaking arms holding Gerome close as cum drips in thick strands over his thighs and Gerome’s hand both.

They both sit in silence, save for the unsteady rhythm of Inigo’s breath.

“I’m going to get cleaned up,” Inigo says suddenly, voice still raw. Slowly, he pulls himself off of Gerome’s dick, both of them wincing at the sudden sensation.

As soon as he’s off, Inigo disappears into the bathroom.

Gerome listens to the sound of water for a moment, before slowly lying back onto the thick woolen blanket. With the cloud of arousal cleared from his mind, apprehension sets in once more, and vaguely, he wonders what,  exactly, he’d just done.

Things wouldn't be the same, that was for sure. Inigo would likely go back to his flirty lifestyle, his curiosity probably satisfied, and Gerome…

Now that he’d opened up to someone, what was there for him?

Gerome tugs himself out of his reverie as the bathroom door opens and Inigo emerges half-dressed. He wants to say something, but his mouth goes dry as Inigo looks up at him and smiles.

“Hey,” Inigo says, voice unusually gentle.

Gerome swallows.

He has to try, at least.

“Are you leaving?” he asks, making an effort to keep his voice even.

Inigo raises a brow, distractedly fixing his hair with a hand as he moves close to the bed once more. “No,” he answers carefully.

There’s a pause. Inigo’s eyes are knowing.

“Will you… stay here?” Gerome asks, hesitant, as if the words had been pulled from him unwillingly.

Inigo smiles.

“Of course.”

Gerome sits up slowly as Inigo takes a seat, eyes careful. For several long moments, neither of them say anything.

Then Inigo leans forward, kissing Gerome sweet and gentle. Like a promise.

Somehow, that’s more than enough.

**Author's Note:**

> *spongebob voice* you like men, don't you gerome
> 
> this was supposed to be 2k words but it turned into a monster
> 
> i am so sorry
> 
> tumblr and twitter @ wetbreadstick


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